Long Prate Poems
Long Prate Poems. Below are the most popular long Prate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prate poems by poem length and keyword.
I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.
Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.
Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud,
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my placeless patios, my me.
America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver,
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears.
Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.
Eke out, O my living?
On what grounds do ye speak?
Based on our thanksgiving?
O turkey, through creek creak!
Wind atop the atoll low?
Steady, then first blow.
Ogre, ochre. Fast or slow?
Gold, give off thy glow...
Tyrant of the ocean deep;
Through dark chasm leap?
Horror, do ye find life cheap?
Challengers to creep...
Thought-light, gloss over the spark?
Fire, light up the dark?
Covenant? Communion, ark?
Hone, upon the bark...
Fill in, O ravine? Unseen.
Trail lead through the green.
Emptiness, fill each machine?
Will it work, I deen...?
Dismay, spring from dynamite?
Nuclear, gone white?
Pinholes, curtains, nine knives, night!
Rampage on the right!
Queen of civilized world, wait?
Hie across the strait!
O for those who prattle, prate!
Rage at higher rate!
Barbarians, gather?
Oppose such as this?
Well, we wouldn't rather.
Sail on, black abyss...
This Bumptious Poet ©
Once again dear reader,
aye strive to regale ye
with in apropos prate,
(nee inane) vain
null gibberish in order to suss stain
mine infamous reputation
with the singular word pain
in thee...online
literary milieu, where this main
stream (babbling virtual
brook call lean)
tin hatted man,
qua zee moat tow "FAKE" King
po' whit laureate selective keen
a boot (sally ling forth)
hemming and hawing,
while feigning bing
a suave hill Billy blue jean
wearing brand Levi Strauss,
(a posthumous plug)
for a savvy German
businessman hood deed glean
prospective market for
denim made easy to clean
material donned by lumpen
proletariat aye assert
would be my status
if born circa
late eighteen hundreds by
a moo their and father,
both named (Elisha) Eli
for short slaving away to feed,
and clothe this then little guy,
who whiz fain to appreciate my
(dirt poor station in life well nigh
larded with love,
and non verbal re: ply
thee above fictitious
i.e. "FAKE" parents rye
zing far and above
penury and did try
their level best
to hammer out
round the clock rockin
round the clock
nsync with the paradigm
of Abraham Maslow,
albeit modified ad hoc
accepting with humility,
poverty how to jock
key providing basic brood
of offspring and subtly mock
king bourgeoisie, re: (unpretentiously
unflattering discrete actions), while rock
king to thee western civilization
trappings of schlock,
ah and oh...no doubt
precious time, aye
did fritter and flout
away distracting sorely tendered,
kindled, and cherished attention
thus metaphorically affecting thee
with equivalent, where
yar entire body riddled with gout.
These weak attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(but not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Shakespeares is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
I see thee yet, mine eyes on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Thus to mine eyes, o'er th'one half world 'pon the sacred curtained sleep,
Seek thou sure and firm, set stepp'd earth nigh summon thee to Heaven, for 'twas echoed knell,
Thy very soul hath prate of thy whereabouts, hear it not, 'tis seeming rest,
Was't the bludgeoned torrent that hath 'straught and tarnish the flesh in faith?
Is't the the awakened howl that hath thus cried? Thou shan't look on't again, thou'st darest do nought.
Thou'st which poor malice hath hail th'merry well half hounded soul,
'Tis the keys locked 'pon thy versities, for 'twas once the pungent ghoul,
Cribb'd, confin'd, is't the glowered blood that hath b'come blanched by thy wall,
Hath slept'n stitch, thy valiance hath drunk'n thy blood 'gainst the wear,
Thou wouldst cut deep, for 'tis o'th'world th'hellhound e'er so sharp'n sleepless squalor,
Here hath thee lay, 'tis'n tow for th'clamoured "love-long livelong night" to close,
Thou see so speak, so th'lamentings heard i'th'air, hath clench the hand e'er so badged'n blood,
'Tis the trill of th'obscure bird, Ho! Do pall th'horror, the wine of life is drawn, sun dreamt'n covered in gall,
'Twas a bath bathed within thy tears, so slept'n the affliction, hath bellowed deathless fears,
Thou hushed had it now seen, so scarf upon the eye'n tender brow, hath drench'd th'sun crowned crow,
So lay th'drought o'thy blood,
'Til thy conjured mirth of blade, shalt milk th'bile of human mind,
See to none o'th'blessings,
For whoe'er so high shall fall, so fall, e'er once more.
So, adieu! Adieu! 'Til hither shall callst thy night'n th'gallows,
'Tis a hush, none spoke nor howl,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."
Thy hath seen, so spoke,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."
Coiffed petals glad tidings tell
Vintage red cup raised to the sun
Whose heat mellows hearth's veil
Enticing host signals feast hath begun
Aromatic vial with sweet scents stew
Hypnotizing fumes already suitors cue
Maitre d' winged banqueters will review
Whizzing minstrels waft toward rendezvous
Arriving guests with sweet libations do woo
Neon-draped Bumble bees enter flickering buzzing strobes
Metallic Green bees browse corridor; each succulent scent probes
Ebony-caped, Wasp beetle antenna fondles light, delicate lobes
Orange, sequined Monarch butterflies prate in paper machete robes
Salivating, virile male patrons imbibe freely from nectar fount
Nubile, female matrons nibble heartier fair; pollen from stamen mount
Wistful Accursed Penniless Fate...God Dime Mitt!
(neither defamation, nor blasphemy meant, sans Title)
Despite ingestion of
anti anxiety medications
ferocious hellish onslaught
pummels me aback
finds resurgence of ghostly
white implacable terror
inducing panic attack
cogs and wheels
of psyche frenetically
spinning alas and alack
swallowed in the un
avoid doubleheader maw
whale size amberjack
suctioned alive as dead ringer
human master bait
(feebly prate who GOD,
somebody please HELP)
doomed to die, "eye"
doth entirely engulf me
far worse than being slammed
by malevolent forces
loosed from hurricane
classed as Category 5
on Saffir-Simpson Scale
adrip with horrible gastric,
caustic, and acidic repulsive
bile alcoholic akin to applejack
and more rancid
than Q8 oily arrack
once again oft repeated phrase
Death be not Proud, viz
reincarnation of Moby Dick
(gone terribly awry)
on the attack after ME
with no way back
to house at Pooh Corner
condemned to spin
willfully intestate,
while steeped in utter black
but....methinks
perhaps fetid blowback
equivalent to volcanic belch, would
spit out "burnt offerings"
formerly Matthew Scott Harris,
whose steaming hot pipe dream
(Ahab) in mind can not
even get "LIVE" feedback,
and definite never
my Stradivarius fiddleback
(I rue...all the money
momma's and pappa's...
scrimped and saved
without giving
this sole sun any flack)...
ha...sardonic humor,
and wistful pointless flashback
equally frivolous hanker
ring for greenback,
legal tender, quid
pro quo, et cetera,
NOW demise welcomed
forever free from penury
small potatoes this measly mortal
even at dirt poor cheap
expense courtesy
Euthanasia travel agency
manned by HiJack,
where captain! My captain!
Humungous humpback
clearly presented danger field,
and only costs this one life
as lil bitty chewy Whitman snack!
I sat in my yard, revering to the sublime splendor.
A Setting sun lighted wheat fields with a gold fender.
The universe is a celestial art by a creator in the sky,
Waves of fuchsia purple swept over the vast bay.
A vast sense of relief overwhelmed the crowd,
Our balance is being reset by an enigmatic cloud.
On a club seat with a friend-calling stranger,
My plans are drying out, and he rules my future.
Engage in conversation with an utter stranger,
On a bus, train, or airplane, there is no danger.
Do not fear woodpeckers; you're a snug man,
There is a chance that this connection won't span.
Stranger, your smile brightens the world.
Stranger! Can we sustain an eternal odd horde?
Stranger, let's smoke, drink coffee, and talk.
Relationship talk may sneak into silicone caulk.
Lightness after pain bestows short-term happiness,
The agony of aliens sparks elation and craftiness.
When wooing a scumbag, truancy may be attractive,
Where howls prevailed, calm gropes were inductive.
But not everyone I described was abrasive,
People greet, faces saying farewell, prate to give.
No words upright a graceful aura, no weakness,
Laying our sins at God's feet, exulting in meekness.
A stranger might canalize me into his world,
My own is ponderous, but I've done nothing absurd.
Since when I'm with you, I would sure cut loose,
With you, I flee in a sustained way that I can seduce.
My anxious thoughts rip through my wrecked heart,
A genuine man, riven and split into red and blue charts.
I will be a stranger as I wade down the dreary street,
A stranger is resting on concrete, seeking an exit.
Written: September 23, 2022
These vain attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(and not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Spensers is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!